The Woman
by Ezra Quinn
Summary: After meeting Irene Adler, Sherlock becomes curious and explores what it feels like to desire someone, and how to manage those feelings. Message me suggestions/prompts or put them in reviews, and if I like your idea, I'll write it!
1. Chapter 1

John grabbed his keys off the kitchen table, doing a double-take at the black vinyl dissection case that lie open amongst Sherlock's equipment; three of the tools were missing from their slots. Sherlock had made a point not to touch the dissection kit that Sarah had nicked for him several months ago, that is until she ended her relationship with John. She'd called it conflicting schedules, but Sherlock and John both knew it was Sherlock's constant tugging on the fishing line he had metaphorically attached to the back of John's collar. John either didn't realize or didn't care that that was the way Sherlock looked at it, and he most certainly didn't realize that he did it on purpose to split to couple apart. At any rate, both of them knew that it drove John up the wall that Sherlock had started using it after the break-up.

"Going out," John said, neglecting to mention that he had a date with a pretty girl he'd seen often at the laundromat. To mention that would be the same as telling Sherlock he was bored and willing to do his bidding for the rest of the evening. Sherlock didn't reply—as usual—and John pushed thoughts of Sarah out of his head as he went down the stairs and left the flat.

"I know you're going on a date, John," Sherlock said, long after the door had closed behind the doctor. He was wearing one of his nicer dressing gowns—the blood red one—and lying on his back on the sofa. He turned his head and looked at the skull across the room, turned away from the kitchen as per Mrs. Hudson's request. Its dry gaze was set on Sherlock's chair, or the window, depending on one's perspective. "I don't know what makes you think those cheap brown shoes will impress anyone, all they ever do is give you blisters by the end of the night." Sherlock sighed and lay silent for a few minutes. The sounds of traffic and the bustling city outside distracted him from his thoughts, and so he got up and retreated down the hall to his much quieter, dimmer bedroom.

The bookshelves had recently been dusted by Mrs. Hudson, so he knew she wouldn't be coming upstairs today, and also because she never goes shopping on Sundays. His phone sighed from his pocket, and he dug it out from the dark red folds of his dressing gown.

_I don't suppose I'll be seeing you at any Halloween parties next week. _

Sherlock read the message and put his phone on the bed beside him. It had been just over a month since he had met Irene Adler, known as "The Woman." It had only taken him 20 minutes to figure out how to change his text notification back to the default, but he chose not to. It made John squirm, and Mycroft vacated the premises immediately after the sound would go off, and so it came in handy. Another sigh.

_I've been considering the traditional sexy cat costume. What do you think?_

An image of Irene dressed in a tight, lacey outfit with only the minimal amount of clothing required to convey the idea flashed in his mind briefly. He shut his eyes, trying to coax the image back into his head. This time, she had a leash; it was a detachable riding crop. She held it between her teeth, her bright red lips barely touching it. Suddenly, she was striding towards him, barefoot, and in a flash she unhooked the riding crop and snapped it at him. His eyes snapped open when he was startled by another sigh.

_If I painted myself as a cadaver and waited at Bart's, would you come see me?_

Sherlock put the phone down again, and replayed his previous thought like an old VHS; rewind, play, pause, repeat. He had known she would hit him—obviously, as it was in his own mind where this thought lived—but he hadn't flinched or moved away. Why not? The cogs turned between his ears, and in the blackness behind his eyelids, he tried to figure it out. Did he admire her? No, that's not the right word… Respected? No… Desired? Hmm. That's a new one. He couldn't recall desiring someone before.

32, 24, 34. He repeated the measurements over and over in his head, remembering the day he'd met her, how she'd been wearing nothing but cosmetics, how she'd straddled him on the sofa. Her strong, graceful, voluptuous hips at eye level, strong muscles showing in her thighs as they steadied her position over him.

Sherlock was suddenly aware of his palms. His fingers were steeped over his stomach, and his palms were moist with sweat. He opened his eyes and looked at them, and at the shine of the sweat reflecting the dim light at the other side of the room by his bookshelves. Something behind his hands caught his attention, and he moved his hands away from each other to see what it was.

He blinked, startled, when he recognized the protrustion in his pants. Recognized is hardly an appropriate word, as he couldn't recall seeing it before. He'd seen it on other people before, dead and alive, for various different reasons (none recreational), but never himself. He tilted his head in curiousity as he considered his erection; his size, relative to the average, was longer but not thicker. As he was aware of it now, he felt his blood pumping within it, holding it erect, as it waited. What was it waiting for? Stimulation, obviously, but what kind? He knew how it was done, when one was alone and in need of stimulation, but he had never done it before. Now was the time to experiment for himself. His phone sighed again, but he ignored it.

He reached tentatively towards it, and hovering just above it with an outstretched hand, waited a few seconds before gently taking hold of it. He exhaled deeply through his nose, involuntarily, as he felt both a wave of tension and a release of it almost simultaneously. It felt quite nice, just holding it like that. He began stroking it, and that sent more of those tense-release waves throughout his body. He moaned quietly, and jumped at the sound. Had he just made that noise? He was usually in complete control of his body, and this lapse both startled and intrigued him.

He lay there for a minute or two, just stroking, enjoying the sensations that swept through his body. He had the whole map of the nervous system in his head, and recalled now just how many nerve endings were concentrated in the penis. Particularly at the head.

He could feel heat in his face now, and he could feel a spot of damp fabric pressing against the tip of his prick. It became bothersome, so he hoisted his hips off the bed to remove his pyjama bottoms and boxer-briefs. His underwear was at his ankles now, and his hand was already wrapped around his cock again, and he enjoyed how it felt with skin touching skin. He saw the source of dampness in his underwear was shining at the tip of his prick, and recognized it as precum, which functioned as a natural lubricant for intercourse to make entering and moving within the vagina easier. The image of Irene Adler's carefully manicured vagina suddenly flashed in Sherlock's mind, and he closed his eyes quickly to hold it there. He had begun stroking himself again, without really thinking about it, and the provocative image in his head was vibrant in his eidetic memory.

His hands seemed to have acquired a mind of their own now, and moved according to demands from an authority separate from Sherlock's brain. They squeezed every so often as they moved up and down, up and down, up and down. He moaned again, appreciating the deepness of his voice resulting from his heightened testosterone levels. He began moving his hand faster, remembering Irene saying, "Brainy is the new sexy." He squeezed at the top of his prick when his brain replayed her pistol-whipping one of the CIA agents. More precum had spilled out than he realized, and the slickness caused his thumb to slip up and across the very tip. He gasped, and muscles in his lower abdomen that rarely stirred twitched and clenched.

Suddenly, he was pumping and squeezing his prick faster and harder, panting and moaning as he went. Images swirled in his mind: Irene straddling him, walking about in his coat, calling him sexy, whipping him down to the floor. All of a sudden, as if there was a flash of bright light, his mind went blank and he gasped and moaned, abdomen clenching, toes curling, and prick twitching as it released its tension and spilled cum into his hand and onto his sweat-moistened shirt. He lie there gasping and panting for several minutes before his mind finally cleared and his heart rate leveled out to normal.

He opened his eyes and looked down at himself. His hand was still gently holding onto his shining, flaccid prick, and there were ribbons of semi-translucent milky fluid on his shirt. He cursed himself for not thinking ahead and removing the shirt as he took it off now, carefully, to avoid making the mess spread.

As he got out of bed to wrap himself in a towel to shower, he wondered what had suddenly come over him. It had started as an experiment, but he couldn't recall any data of value gained from it. He could hardly remember doing half of it, as if something had come over him and redirected his thought processes. What he did know, he realized as he stepped into the shower, was that it was a very enjoyable experience.


	2. Dinner

"I know you know how to change that back," John said after Sherlock's phone moaned on the table. "And you know it makes Mrs. Hudson uncomfortable."

"Mrs. Hudson isn't here now, so it's irrelevant," Sherlock replied, nibbling at the edge of his toast while flipping through his notes for an experiment.

"So my opinion doesn't mean a thing?" John asked, raising his eyebrows over the paper.

"No," Sherlock replied. He took note of John's sulky mood, however, and abandoned his half-eaten snack (forced on him by John) to retreat to his bedroom, taking his mobile with him. Shutting the door behind him, he collapsed onto his bed, lying horizontally across it, and checked to see what Irene Adler had texted him this time.

_Dinner?_

_ Not hungry. –SH_

Sherlock had a strange urge to see her, though; he'd spent the past week dreaming of her and stroking himself to his memory of her. He was enjoying this desire he was feeling; it gave him a great sense of control and power. He decided how to relieve himself of it, he could coax his body into the exact reaction he wanted, whenever he wanted. He had set up a ballroom for The Woman in his mind palace, and he hoped to fill it properly. There was currently a female mannequin with his coat on it, and a table beside it with a riding crop and mobile phone sitting on top. His phone sighed, eliciting a slight stir in Sherlock's groin.

_Neither am I…_

Sherlock stared blankly at the suggestive ellipses that punctuated her text, and tried to figure out how he should respond.

_ Shall we skip dinner, then? –SH_

There was an elegant disco ball hanging from the ceiling of the ballroom in his Mind Palace, and instead of capturing and reflecting light, it captured images of Irene Adler and reflected them on the walls and floor. There weren't very many of them yet, but Sherlock aspired to add to the collection. Another moan from beside him on the bed. A devious grin spread across Sherlock's face as he read the address and time in the text; he glanced at his watch, and saw that he had just enough time to hail a cab and get there on time.

Donning his scarf and jacket, John looked up from his laptop and asked, "New case?"

"No," Sherlock said, "Repaying a favor to someone in my network."

John nodded, and went back to his laptop; Sherlock knew that John had very little interest in the homeless network, and so it was a very convenient excuse to use. He felt like a teenager sneaking out of the house right under the parents' noses, and as he descended the stairs, he couldn't hide the grin on his face.

Sherlock rang the buzzer, staring into the familiar peephole. This time, he didn't have to be punched in the face to get inside. A muffled voice from inside informed him that the door wasn't locked, so he opened it and stepped in.

"I'm upstairs, dear," A voice called down from the top of the steps, and by the time Sherlock looked up, all he saw was a glimpse of green material. Sherlock surprised himself by being disappointed that she was apparently clothed this time, but dismissed the thought as he ascended the stairs. "Back bedroom, though you probably already—" She smiled upon seeing his face in her vanity mirror, and turned to face him to complete her sentence, "…know. Good boy." She appraised him, pale green eyes taking in every last detail of his appearance, and noting that he had no idea what to do now, or what was expected. What a lovely treat he'll be in for, on his first date.

Sherlock, in turn, took in Ms. Adler's appearance: she was wearing a sheer green gown with a deep neckline that plunged nearly to her navel, and Sherlock gulped when he realized it was quite clear she was wearing nothing underneath it.

Irene stood up slowly, gracefully, and began circling Sherlock like a bird of prey honing in on its next meal. "So, Mr. Sherlock Holmes… you're not hungry so you don't want dinner, and yet here," she lightly touched a finger to his left shoulder, "we," right shoulder, "are." On her last word, her arm came down and seized a firm grip upon Sherlock's arse. Sherlock gasped and felt heat flooding his groin rapidly. "Ooh, we like that, don't we?" The Woman teased, a Cheshire cat grin spreading her red lips wide.

Sherlock swallowed, but not a single drop of any liquid ran down his throat; his mouth had gone completely dry. He was trying to focus his thoughts, but all he could think about were the tiny bumps beneath the gown on each of Irene's breasts and how he had a very sudden desire to lick them. A slap to his cheek startled Sherlock out of his thoughts.

"Uh-uh, eyes up here, dear," Irene reprimanded gently, still smiling. She released her hold on his backside and stood in front of him, unbuttoning his jacket. He reached to help, but a quick slap on the wrist discouraged him from doing so. His face stung from the slap, but he was wary of raising a hand to his face, for fear he'd be slapped again.

"Now then," Irene continued, sliding the jacket off the detective's shoulders and folding it gently over the chair at her vanity, "Have you been practicing for me, Mr. Holmes?" She took each of his wrists in her hands and examined his hands. "Ooh, you bad boy, you have!"

"How did you-?"

"You're not the only observant one in the room, Mr. Holmes," Irene murmured, sliding her hands across the purple shirt Sherlock was wearing, enjoying the texture of the shirt and the feel of his tense muscles beneath it.

"Sherlock," he mumbled, half-intelligibly.

"What was that?" Irene asked, raising her eyebrows.

"Just call me Sherlock," he said, adding, "please."

"Oh dear," a spark flashed in The Woman's eyes when Sherlock had said the word please. "I haven't even hit you yet, and you're already saying please."

"But you have—" Sherlock began, but a particularly violent slap across the face stopped him and nearly made him forget his sentence.

"_Don't _argue with me," she warned, "I'd only slapped you, until just now. This is going to be a rough night for you if you think a slap is a hit." Sherlock opened his mouth to disagree, but Irene touched her finger to his lips. God, they were like silk. She couldn't wait to make them bleed. "Hush now, it's time I've taught you some manners." The curvy woman who stood before Sherlock, stealing frequent glances at the erection pushing through his pants, had been moving slowly and deliberately except for the slaps. But now she turned in a flash to grab something from the vanity table, but Sherlock already knew what it was.

He grabbed her wrist to stop the riding crop from coming down on him, but she used her free hand to grab the wrist that had stopped hers. He hesitated, his free hand hanging in the air, and Irene smiled. "No, you don't want to do that. It'll only make it worse later on." The corners of Sherlock's mouth turned down, not in sadness, but in a confused sort of pout. "Now, let me go." Sherlock didn't let go, afraid of what would happen when he did. "Sherlock, I said let me go." Her voice was gentle, purring his name, but she dug her nails into his wrist and he released her immediately.

CRACK. The riding crop bit into Sherlock's side, causing him to bend over and clutch his side. Another snap split his knuckles open, and he fell to his knees. "No touching!" Irene shouted, her raised voice startling Sherlock's ears that buzzed with the fresh pain he was in.

"Why-?" Sherlock began, but he was interrupted with another slap to the face.

"Do not speak unless I bid you to," Irene said firmly, staring into the bewildered eyes of the detective on his knees before her. "Understand?" Sherlock nodded, and found himself distracted by a particular part of Ms. Adler that he was at eye level with. This time, the riding crop fell on his shoulder; he bit the inside of his cheek to resist reaching towards it. "Eyes up here," Irene said, touching Sherlock's chin with the end of the small whip and using it to tilt his head up to look her in the eye. "Now, before we ruin this gorgeous shirt, let's take it off. Go on," Irene pointed the whip at him while his long, pale fingers fumbled with the buttons. He winced at the movement of the fingers on his left hand, the vivid blood on the purple bruise standing out in high contrast against his pale white skin. Finally, the shirt was open and he slid it off his shoulders, revealing fresh bruises on the right side of his rib cage and his left shoulder. The bleeding on his fingers was slowing now, and it looked like he had punched concrete with his left hand.

"You gorgeous creature," Irene murmured, tracing the detective's pectoral muscles with the edge of her riding crop. Gooseflesh rose across her prey's arms and she grinned. "Now, here are the rules. You do not touch anything; not me, not yourself, and _especially_ not this," she pointed the crop at his nose, and Sherlock's eyes crossed briefly. "You try to take this from me, and you will suffer for it, I promise you." Sherlock was transfixed by The Woman's lips when she said the word "promise;" it was as if he was watching her in slow-motion. The full red lips pursed together for the "pr" and parted very briefly in a perfect circle for the _o_ before coming together again for the _m_, and finally they parted over her teeth to pronounce the hissing end of the word.

"The most important rule, however," Irene noticed Sherlock was distracted by her mouth and said, "Sherlock Holmes, do pay attention when I am speaking to you." His eyes snapped up to meet hers, and she continued, "The most important rule is that you do not finish until I say you can." Then, slowly, she knelt down in front of the detective, and maintaining eye contact, squeezed his erection through his pants. Sherlock groaned, throwing his head back. "Mmm, you like that, don't you? Would you like me to suck on it?" Sherlock's eyes nearly tripled in size and he nodded fervently. "What's that? Speak up."

"Y—" he choked on his own dry throat, gulped quickly and tried again, "Yes."

"Yes what?"

"Yes, I want you to."

"Want me to do what?"

"Suck me. I-I want you to suck me," despite the circumstances, Sherlock couldn't keep from blushing at his own request, no matter whose idea it was in the first place.

"How badly?" Irene asked, looking like the smouldering daughter of Aphrodite and Hades with her red lips and full figure, leaning close to Sherlock as they both knelt on the floor. If ever such a fearsome, sexual creature existed, its parents could be no one else.

"Very. Oh very, very badly," Sherlock was pleading now, which is exactly what Irene wanted.

"Oh, I'm not sure I should…" Irene said, sounding disinterested and looking away, paying close attention to him through her peripheral vision.

"Please," Sherlock licked his dry lips, hardly believing the words that they were forming, "Please suck me off."

"Well, you _did_ say please," Irene said, standing back up. Sherlock was confused; why was she standing up? Hadn't she just agreed to his request? "Down." Sherlock didn't understand, and she hit him square in the chest with the riding crop he'd almost forgotten about. "I said, _down!_" He changed from kneeling to lying on his back on the hardwood floor, and Irene stepped forward to stand between his legs, her bare toes just barely touching his thighs. "Now take off your pants." Sherlock obeyed quickly, squirming out of his black trousers like an over-eager teenager. She admired the welt swelling on his chest, and from the angle she'd hit him at, it was almost heart-shaped. "Is it my turn now, you think?" She asked, gesturing to the green gown draped loosely over her. Sherlock nodded, and she raised her eyebrows and put a hand to her ear.

"Please," he said, and she beamed; he was a fast learner, naturally.

"Only if you behave," she warned, and shrugged it off. As in literally shrugged her shoulders, and it fell whispering to the floor, piled around her ankles. She stepped out of it and tossed it across the room with reckless abandon. "Defrocked again, detective," Irene pointed out with a grin, eyeing up the sturdy prick that was begging for her attention. She knelt down slowly, and bent over with one hand on either side of Sherlock's hips. He was panting in anticipation, and she grinned as she planted a kiss on the shining tip. She licked her lips to test how he tasted, and she had to admit, she had yet to taste someone so good.

She stole another chance at eye contact with Sherlock and was absolutely thrilled to see the plea in his eyes, his lips parted ever-so slightly as he tilted his head to see her better. "Relax, dear," Irene cooed, her breath hot on his prick, "Lay back and enjoy this."

Sherlock obeyed, and was immediately taken aback by Irene's definition of "this." She had taken him all the way in, and he could feel himself brushing the back of his warm, wet throat. His hips twitched reflexively in an attempt for friction, but the moment they canted, a rush of cold air and abandonement hit his prick. "Don't move," Irene instructed firmly.

"But I—" Sherlock began to defend himself, but the riding crop came down on the sensitive skin of his left thigh.

"I said, don't move," she hit him again on the exact same place, and he winced, "and don't argue with me!" She hit the welt again, and Sherlock howled as it split open. "Be still now, love," she said gently, and bent over once more to take his prick into her mouth. This time, Sherlock disciplined himself with incredibly difficult restraint to keep his hips from bucking. He wanted to fuck her mouth, make her gag for the blood she's made him spill, but he didn't dare make any indication of his desire. He felt his prick twitching inside her mouth, his heartbeat pulsating against her throat, and all of a sudden, he felt muscles he was previously only vaguely aware of twitching in his lower abdomen. He was getting close.

"Oh… oh God… Christ, don't stop, bloody… fuck…" Sherlock babbled between pants, his chest shining with his arousal and restraint. _This was almost too easy_, Irene thought to herself.

"What's that, love?" She asked innocently, eliciting a whimper from Sherlock when she withdrew from his cock.

"Don't… stop," he panted, "Please don't stop." His hips bucked into the open air, desperate for contact with something, anything. He missed her mouth surrounding him unlike any tragedy he'd previously experienced before in his entire life.

"Oh, I was far from stopping, Mr. Holmes," Irene assured him with a grin, and bent forward to take him in her mouth again, but just as her lips brushed the tip of his prick, the buzzer rang downstairs. "Oh! Dear me," Irene said, standing up quickly and checking the time on her vanity's desk clock as the front door opened and closed downstairs. "Kate's here for her eight o'clock! I'm afraid time's up, Mr. Holmes."

Oh, how she would have loved to take a picture of the detective's face right then. He looked at her as if she'd personally snapped the necks of each of his dreams right in front of his face, one at a time. The best part of it was he wasn't angry—no, far from it; he was too frightened of her to be angry—but he was immeasurably devastated. His head fell back against the floor with a dull thud, and he moaned.

"You may finish now, Sherlock," Irene told him as she donned her green gown, watching him carefully. "Go on now, I'll give you five minutes before I kick you out onto the pavement."

Sherlock whimpered as he wrapped his fingers around his prick and began stroking in earnest. As if making up for what he couldn't do before, he thrust his hips to push his prick through his fingers, moaning shamelessly as he fucked his hand in the middle of the floor while The Woman watched him. His muscles began clenching again, and before he knew it, he was overcome by the most violent orgasm he had ever had. Spurts of his release shot out desperately, copiously showering the floor and his injured thigh. Irene's eyes lit up when she saw the cum mix with the blood on Sherlock's thigh, and before Sherlock had regained his composure, she was kneeling beside him and lapping up the mess from his thigh, blood and all.

"Ungh," Sherlock groaned, not feeling any pain in his thigh as he was still numb from his climax.

"Good boy," Irene said, gently patting Sherlock's bruised hand. Standing up to leave, she said, "Now put on your clothes and go home. Sleep well, Mr. Holmes." That said, she turned and sauntered out of the room and down the stairs. Sherlock was vaguely aware of her voice mingling with another female voice as he stood shakily to his feet and clumsily put himself back together.

The crisp, cool air was welcoming to Sherlock's weary body when he stepped out of the house, and when he'd tracked down a cab, he decided to have the cabbie leave him a small ways away from 221B so that he could walk off the events of the evening. He also needed to figure out a way to evade John's inevitable questions about the bruise on his face and left hand, both of which were very plainly visible. As the cab drove along, Sherlock leaned his head back against his seat and licked his lips; he tasted blood, and he was not surprised.


	3. To Heel and to Heal

_Are you healing well, Mr. Holmes?_  
><em>-IA<em>

Sherlock pounced on his phone like a cat to a mouse. John raised his eyebrows from across the table. He'd gotten used to the lewd text alert, but seeing Sherlock respond so strongly to it was different.

"What about me do you find so captivating that you need to stare?" Sherlock asked as he considered his response to Irene.

"You seem a lot more excited than usual about your texts this morning," John said, eyebrows still waiting expectantly for an explanation.

"I haven't noticed any difference," Sherlock lied, typing his response.

_With antibiotic cream and time, I will heal just fine.  
><em>_-SH_

"That's because you're too busy jumping on your mobile like a kid to a candy bar," John remarked with a smirk.

"It startled me," Sherlock said simply, putting his phone down on the table and returning to his notes for his current experiment.

"It did not!" John argued with a playful grin.

"I was engrossed in my notes."

"Oh, come off it, Sherlock, you are never startled by anything, ever. You were excited for that text." He paused, and added, "You were waiting for it, weren't you?" A moan interrupted their conversation, and Sherlock snatched the phone up immediately. John laughed and said, "There you go again!" Sherlock didn't respond, because he was reading the new text.

_Let me see.  
><em>_-IA_

John set down the paper, having found better entertainment in watching his flatmate's odd behavior. And by John's standards for Sherlock, odd was really saying something.

_See what?  
><em>_-SH_

"It's incredibly difficult for me to concentrate on my work when you're staring like that," Sherlock said without looking up, turning one of the notebook pages back and forth.

"Oh, I'm sure flirting with Ms. Adler is _much _more frustrating," John said, sitting back in his chair and folding his arms across his chest. Sherlock's pale complexion took on an entirely different color that nearly matched the red pen notations on his chemical-stained notebook.

"I haven't the faintest idea where you got that idea," Sherlock mumbled.

"There's no shame in fancying someone, you know," John explained, "It's what normal people do."

"I'm not normal, John."

"I know you're not normal, I'm just pointing out that it's fine to fancy someone."

"I don't _fancy _anybody, John, but your giggling like a schoolgirl implies that there is a great amount of shame in it," Sherlock pointed out, trying to sound casual and disinterested. His phone moaned again, and Sherlock could feel John's intent gaze on him as he read the text.

_Don't play dumb, Sherlock. It doesn't suit you.  
><em>_Show me your wounds.  
><em>_-IA_

"I'm not implying shame," John explained, watching Sherlock carefully, "I just think it's hilarious that Sherlock fancies a dominatrix."

"I don't see what's so humourous," Sherlock replied curtly, standing up, "But if you'll excuse me, I've got to go to my mind palace." That said, Sherlock left the kitchen and strode down the hall. John shook his head and resumed reading the paper, chuckling to himself at how very childish Sherlock could be at times.

_Why don't you examine them in person?  
><em>_-SH_

Sherlock sent the text before locking his bedroom door behind him. He gently tossed the phone on his bed and began unbuttoning his shirt in front of the mirror. Tossing it onto the bed beside his mobile, he stepped back to observe his bare chest and abdomen in the mirror. There were purple welts making a sort of diagonal trend from his left shoulder to his chest, and down to the right side of his rib cage.

He had explained the rosy bruise on his cheek and his split lip as an altercation with a drug dealer who misunderstood Sherlock's intentions. He stepped closer to the mirror to investigate his wounds to see how they had begun healing overnight, and he took a tube of antibiotic cream from his dresser to gently apply it to the welts.

John hadn't seen these marks, as Sherlock had taken care not to sleep nude and wander about the flat wrapped in a sheet as he preferred, instead donning a loose T-shirt and a baggy pair of pyjama shorts that covered his knees. He had just taken a shower shortly before sitting with John in the kitchen, and so he needn't worry about the cream being washed off. He just needed to stay in his room until it soaked in enough that his shirt wouldn't rub it off or bear visible marks where the cream leaked through.

Curiously enough, the pain from touching and gently rubbing the split bruises on his upper body did not bother him; rather, it brought back memories of the night before when the wounds had been created. As he massaged the heart-shaped bruise on his chest, Sherlock shut his eyes to withdraw from reality and visit his Mind Palace.

The Woman's ballroom had been renovated overnight, before Sherlock had gone to sleep; before there had simply been a few measley props, but now it was much more furnished. The end table that had held the riding crop and mobile was gone, replaced instead with the ornate Victorian vanity that occupied Ms. Adler's back bedroom.

There were also full-length mirrors with gold frames covering two walls opposite each other in the ballroom, creating the illusion of a much more larger space than there actually was. It made it appear that there were hundreds upon hundreds of chandeliers hanging from the high domed ceiling, twinkling in the light given off by themselves and their neighbors.

Sherlock approached the wall nearest him and centered him in one of the mirrors; in his Palace, he was almost always nude, as it was most comfortable and provided him with the optimum somatosensory experience required to retrieve some of his memories and knowledge. He examined his wouds as he had in his own bedroom, and gently traced the outline of his least severe bruise, the one on his chest. The moment his fingers made contact, the mirror changed into a flashback of Irene striking his chest and demanding that he lay on his back on the floor.

He dragged his fingers down his chest and across his stomach to trace the more vivid bruise on his side, and this showed him the memory of Irene scolding him for fighting back. He brought his right hand to rest on top of his left, feeling his red-raw knuckles. The mirror flashed with the image of Irene striking Sherlock for grasping his injured side, and in an involuntary reflex, Sherlock withdrew his hands from his side quickly, and the mirror went back to his reflection.

Reminding himself that he would not be punished for touching the wounds by himself, in the privacy of his Mind Palace, Sherlock moved on to the swollen bruise on his shoulder. This memory caused a change in blood flow he could feel—even as he was separate from reality in his Mind Palace—when he saw his eye-level view of Ms. Adler's crotch. The clean, delicate folds of skin between her legs were so close and yet so far; the latter had been emphasized by the crack of the riding crop on his shoulder.

Finally, Sherlock's hand glided down across his chest, passed his hip, and hovered at the junction between leg and hip. The most severe mark Ms. Adler had carved into Sherlock's body was the puckered welt on his thigh; Sherlock had applied butterfly stitches to it before he'd gone to sleep to ensure it wouldn't split open again while he slept. He didn't stroke this wound as he had done with the others, as it was far too sensitive; instead he gently rested his fingertips on it without moving them. The mirror reflected darkness, as he'd had his eyes closed while Ms. Adler had wrapped her mouth around his prick and taunted his most sensitive nerve-endings with her lips and tongue. He felt his hand gripping and stroking himself desperately while Irene watched, and when he was still seeing stars from his orgasm, he felt her mouth on his soiled thigh, licking up the blood and cum.

Suddenly, he felt himself coming again, and found himself kneeling in front of the mirror in his bedroom, forehead pressed against its cold surface as liquid heat ejaculated into his hand and onto the floor. Breathless and stunned from the violent return back to reality, Sherlock panted, his breath clouding the mirror's reflective surface.

Once he'd regained his full consciousness, he noticed that his pants were around his ankles and his underwear was tugged down, the waistband stretching around his thighs. He stumbled twice before he was able to stand up properly to clean himself off and put himself back together. When that was done, he remembered his mobile was lying abandoned on the bed where his shirt had been, and he picked it up to find a text waiting for him from fifteen minutes ago.

_I'm a patient woman, Mr. Holmes, but even I have my limits.  
><em>_-IA_

Sherlock blushed slightly, wondering if she would be able to guess what he had been up to. He hadn't buttoned his shirt yet, so he walked in front of the mirror to take a picture of his torso from shoulder to hips. He wasn't going to send her a picture of his thigh, no matter what she threatened him with; it simply wasn't a decent thing to do.

He strode towards the window and picked up his violin, which only needed a small amount of tuning as it hadn't been long since he had last played. Just as he was about to play, he heard his phone moan from inside his pocket.

_I was kind enough to make the evidence concealable, as it was only your first time.  
><em>_Next time won't be so easy to explain to Dr. Watson.  
><em>_-IA_

_You are far too confident in his observational abilities.  
><em>_-SH_

_A man does not need to see to observe, Mr. Holmes.  
><em>_-IA_


	4. Queen Bitch

"Now we wait until the house is sold, to see what the realtor does with the resulting commission," Sherlock explained as they entered the flat.

"Lovely," John groaned, "You hate waiting."

"No, you just hate how I pass the time while waiting," Sherlock said as they ascended the stairs.

"No," John insisted as he follwed Sherlock up the stairs, "You hate waiting." Sherlock smirked as he unlocked the door to the sitting room, offering no reply.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen," Irene Adler cooed from where she stood beside Sherlock's chair by the fire. She was wearing nothing but a black lace lingerie set, with knee-high mesh stockings supported by matching panty-garters. Sherlock immediately searched her body for the riding crop, and discovered it was tucked into a hidden sheath sewn into the back of one of her knee-highs.

"How did you—" John began, but Irene shushed him.

"How does the magician pull the rabbit from his hat? Try as we might to figure it out, we're all aware that we don't really want to know. It spoils the mystery."

John's frown deepened and he replied impatiently, "Right, but this isn't a children's show, this is breaking—" but he was cut off again, less gently this time.

"Don't make me tape your mouth shut, Doctor." John opened his mouth to respond, but Sherlock seized the doctor's elbow to discourage him from arguing. Irene grinned when she saw this and said, "It's best you listen to your friend, Dr. Watson," she grinned and shifted her Cheshire smile to Sherlock, "He knows I don't make empty threats. Close the door now, dear."

"What are you talking about?" John demanded as Sherlock shut and locked the door to the sitting room. He looked in confused astonishment from the recently mute consulting detective to the half-naked woman in the room.

"Show him, dear," Irene said, nodding at Sherlock and tilting her head to the side. "Go on, don't be shy." Sherlock reluctantly but obediently removed his jacket and began unbuttoning his shirt.

"What? Sherlock, _what are you doing?_" John demanded again, absolutely bewildered.

"I told you to be quiet," Irene snapped, pulling the riding crop John hadn't seen from behind her. She brandished it threateningly as she added, "That is your final warning, Dr. Watson."

"No! Stop this! You can't just—" CRACK. The flat end of the crop smacked John's cheek with enough force to turn his head to the side. "Ow!" He exclaimed, rubbing his pink cheek in astonishment.

"I said, _be quiet_," Irene said sternly. John looked beside him at Sherlock, who was just then removing his shirt, revealing half-healed welts and bruises on his upper torso. Irene grinned and stepped forward, stopping just inches from Sherlock, and began lightly fingering his wounds. The detective did nothing to stop her; he simply stared, apparently enamored, and a light flush rose to his cheeks.

"Why are you letting her do this?" John demanded, hoping that if Irene wouldn't answer him, Sherlock would. He grabbed Sherlock's arm, and an odd hissing sound came from Ms. Adler's mouth. She removed her hand from Sherlock's chest and slapped John across his other cheek, snarling, "He's _mine!_ Don't touch him!"

"Stop hitting me!" John snapped, and Irene grabbed John's wrists and pinned him painfully against the wall with surprising speed and strength.

"I have no interest in you, Doctor," Irene murmured against his ear, as Sherlock looked on intently, "I'm here for Mr. Holmes. You are simply an accesory to my game today. As you can see, Mr. Holmes and I have played these games before." John frowned threateningly and Ms. Adler continued, "Not to worry; he likes it. Don't you, dear?" She turned her face to smile mischeviously at Sherlock. The detective nodded, blushing at this revelation in front of John. "So you hush now, and don't worry one bit. I'll take good care of him."

"She—" Sherlock's voice cracked, and he licked his dry lips to try again, "She's right, John. It's all consensual; it's just a game." He cleared his throat awkwardly and gestured with his eyes to the slight protrustion in his trousers.

"Oh… oh!" John cleared his throat, finally understanding the situation, albeit barely. "Right. So I'll just be off, then. Leave you to… this."

"Oh no," Irene cooed wickedly, strengthening her grip on John's wrists, "Don't mind us. Please stay." Sherlock blinked in astonishment and blushed when he put it all together: he now knew what Ms. Adler had meant in her text from the day before: "_Next time won't be so easy to explain … A man does not need to see to observe."  
><em>

"No, I'd really rather not," John said, squirming under The Woman's strong gaze and grip.

"No, Dr. Watson, I insist," Irene murmured, digging her nails into his wrists. John winced and opened his mouth to protest, but Irene spoke over him, "Do you have a girlfriend, Doctor?"

"Er," John blinked at the sudden query, "Yes, I do."

"Then how about you do as I say, and you won't have any awkward questions to answer the next time you shag her. Or have you not gone that far yet?" A pause where John blushed and frowned, not sure whether his indignation or embarrassment was the more dominant feeling in his chest. "A simple nod will suffice for our agreement,Doctor." John set his jaw, realizing it was definitely humiliation, but nodded obediently. "Good boy. Now, go sit on your chair and strap yourself in." In response to the bewilderment on John's face, she added, "You'll see. Now do as I say."

She squeezed her nails into his wrists one more time before releasing him, and he rubbed them as he walked slowly over to his chair. He hesitated when he saw that there were arm and leg restraints strapped to the chair, secured by several locks.

"Like I said, dear, I have no interest in you as long as you stay in your chair quietly. I won't lay a finger nor leather on you unless you try to leave or interrupt."

"Right," John met her gaze to check her honesty. Satisfied, he sighed before sitting down and sliding his arms and legs into the harnesses. Irene checked that John was secured firmly before removing a pin from her hair that apparently doubled as a key, using it to lock each of John's restraints.

"Now behave, Doctor Watson," Irene said, taking Sherlock's arm in hers as if they were going for a stroll in the park. "And enjoy the show." She opened the door and flashed her Cheshire cat grin at John, helpless in his chair, before leading Sherlock down the hall and closing the door behind her.


	5. Foreplay

"Why are you getting John involved?" Sherlock asked as he was escorted down the hall to his own bedroom.

"I'm not," Irene replied, stopping in front of Sherlock's bedroom door, "I'm ensuring he doesn't get involved."

"You could have let him leave the flat."

"Oh, but where's the fun in that?" Irene asked with a pouting tone of voice, folding her arms across her mostly bare bosom.

"I'm not sure I see how that makes it fun," Sherlock remarked with a frown.

"Oh, of course not! It's fun for me, but positively humiliating for you. Now open the door."

Sherlock's frown deepened, but he did as he was told to give himself time to think. Irene pushed past him in the doorway to survey the room. She stepped onto the bed and pivoted on her heels to take in the simple arrangement of the plain furnishings in the room. Sherlock closed and locked the door, and somehow the intimate, private quarters he now found himself sharing with The Woman sparked the lustful embers in his groin.

While Ms. Adler surveyed the room, looking very much like a captain who had just successfully commandeered an enemy's ship, Sherlock approached her slowly and quietly. When her back was turned to him, Sherlock reached out and stroked her bare thigh, his other hand gently palming his crotch.

"Ready for today's lesson already, Mr. Holmes?" Irene teased a stray curl on his forehead, and when he inched his hand upwards on her thigh, she yanked roughly on the curl she had wrapped around her finger. Sherlock yelped in pain, and Irene slapped him when his hand reflexively gripped her thigh tighter. "You've been dirty today already, Sherlock, I can tell. Before we go any further, I'll have to clean you up some."

A few minutes later, Irene had led Sherlock into the bathroom and instructed him to strip and climb into the bathtub. He sat awkwardly in the dry tub as it slowly filled with scaldingly hot water, but he knew better than to comment on it or complain. He did say, however, "You're being unusually kind today. By this time last week, you'd already had me bleeding and on my knees."

Ms. Adler chuckled and turned up the heat on the spout as the water began pooling around the detective's buttocks in the shallow end. "We haven't even started yet, dear. Don't speak too soon."

"You sound like my mother," Sherlock grumbled; he was 'insufferably impatient'—as John put it—on a normal day, but when he was aroused like this, he was far worse.

The dominatrix laughed heartily and gestured towards Sherlock's fully erect penis as she said, "Do you respond to her like that?"

Sherlock grimaced and flushed crimson at the obscene suggestion, glaring at Irene as he spat, "No! Of course not."

"Oh dear," Irene tutted, turning the hot water knob even further up, "You really should know better than to say no to me." Sherlock felt the water scalding his feet as it poured over them, washing waves of intense heat over his legs. The water level was just now creeping up his hardened prick, and when it was nearly up to the head, Irene shut the steaming water off. She admired the redness on Sherlock's submerged legs and buttocks and dipped a red-polished finger into the water beside the detective's feet. "Ooh, the water's quite hot, isn't it?" Sherlock offered no reply, his lips pressed together firmly. "You're being such a good boy, Sherlock, being so quiet. You know what good boys get, don't you?" He shook his head silently, staring ahead at his toes. "Good boys get rewarded."

She shifted so that she sat cross-legged instead of to the side on the edge of the bathtub, and dipped her hand into the water, tracing Sherlock's ankle up his shin, past his knee, up the inside of his thigh, and gently wound around his prick. His lips parted in a silent gasp, and his eyes closed; it was quite the glorious sight to behold.

"Which soap do you use?" She asked gently, and the detective wordlessly pointed at a blue bar of soap on the dish attached to the wall. Irene reached over Sherlock and the steaming bathwater, seized the bar of soap, and set it on her knee while dipping her hands into the water. She rubbed the bar in her hands to work a lather before reaching forward and grasping Sherlock's prick in both hands.

"Aah…!" Sherlock gasped, and he felt his prick swell in the warm, wet hands of Irene Adler.

"Relax, Mr. Holmes," Irene cooed, stroking Sherlock's length slowly with both hands. She felt his body relax as he tilted his head back to lean against the wall, eyes closed and lips parted, breathing in time to the slow strokes that massaged his aching erection. He loved how well the soap served as a lubricant, and the wet sounds it made as Irene's hands slid up and down, in and out of the water. He moaned so quietly it sounded more like a purr. "Don't be afraid to be noisy."

"But… John…" Sherlock mumbled, eyes still closed.

"Don't worry about him. Be as loud as you'd like."

"But—"

"No, I _insist_," on her last word, Irene squeezed Sherlock's prick and he cried out in pain. She resumed stroking, faster now than before. Sherlock gasped and moaned. "I know you're holding back, Sherlock. Don't make me insist again." She tightened her grip, and Sherlock let out a strangled moan, deep and gutteral. "That's better. Good boy," Irene coaxed him, pumping harder and faster. Sherlock's breathing quickened and he was moaning more frequently now. Irene could feel him pulsing between her fingers and she saw his clenched abdomen and buttocks, anticipating the climax that approached. Just before Sherlock could lose control, Irene removed her hand.

Sherlock whimpered and blindly thrusted his hips in the water, his prick twitching desperately but with no release. He opened his eyes and panted, "Why… why did you stop?"

"The point of a bath is to get you clean, Mr. Holmes," Irene explained calmly as she rinsed her hands in the water, "Getting cum in the bathwater will only make you dirtier."

"But—" Sherlock began, but gave up before he argued further. With a swishing sound, he reached forward and grasped his prick to finish himself off. He'd hardly given himself three strokes when Irene slapped his hand away, and then struck his face.

"Don't dirty the bath water!" Irene shouted, standing now and leaning over the edge of the tub. Her breasts hung below her, taunting Sherlock with their fullness. He stared openly, and before the pink glow on his cheek had time to fade, he was struck again. "It's incredibly rude to stare, Mr. Holmes." He averted his eyes, staring forlornly at his aching prick that poked out of the warm water in front of him. There was still a fair amount of soapy lather on it, mixing with precum from all the stimulation, and he ushered a wave over it with his hand to rinse it off.

"Oh, I've forgotten to rinse you off! Here, let me," Irene said, no longer stern but back to being gentle. She perched on the edge of the bathtub again, and cupped her hands around Sherlock's prick, moving them back and forth to create waves that undulated around the throbbing red length. Sherlock sighed in response to the gentle stimulation, watching as if hypnotized as Ms. Adler's hands came close to his prick, then backed away, then closer again, then back away.

She withdrew her hands from the water and told Sherlock to stand up, but not to leave the tub just yet. "Which is yours?" She asked, gesturing towards the two towels hanging on the rack by the sink. Sherlock pointed at the dark blue one, and Irene took it from the rack and approached the detective with it. She beckoned him forward, and he stepped out of the tub and onto the plush bath rug in front of Ms. Adler, who then proceeded to towel him off gently. When she reached his groin, she seized his half-hard cock firmly through the towel. It hardened quickly as she fiercely pumped at a surprisingly satisfying speed, and Sherlock forgot that John was in the next room down the hall.

"Ah! God… Oh God…" He cried out, alternately grunting and moaning as Irene fisted him roughly through the towel. He reached out frantically for something to lean on, and finding the countertop, gripped it with white knuckles. His moaning grew louder as he felt his muscles bunching and the ecstasy building as he was just about to—and with a rush of cold air, Irene had withdrawn her hands and the towel with them. The detective whimpered and his knees gave out beneath him, causing him to collapse on his bum on the bathroom floor, once again denied release just moments before it could happen.

"We can have proper fun now that you're clean and dry," Irene said with a devilish smile as Sherlock looked helplessly at her from the floor, not daring to touch himself for fear of the punishment he'd receive. "Get up, now, dear."

She led Sherlock, naked, down the hall and back to his bedroom. She locked the door behind them and approached the detective, placing her hands on his chest on either side of the bruise she'd left last time. She gently pushed against him until he understood that she expected him to walk backwards, and when his legs backed up against his bed, she shoved him onto his back roughly and climbed up to straddle him.

"I know how your cock tastes, my dear Mr. Holmes, but I know nothing of how our mouth tastes. Shall I find out?" She asked, and before Sherlock could offer a response, she leaned forward and pressed her lips firmly on his, steadying herself with one hand on either side of his head. Sherlock received her gratefully and his tongue begged for admittance into her mouth. Irene bit down on the needy muscle, and Sherlock cried out, more in surprise than pain. "You are a noisy one, aren't you? I do like it when you yelp like a helpless puppy." She punctuated this statement by swiping her nails across his chest, catching one of his nipples in her path.

Sherlock yelped, unsure if what he was feeling was agony or pleasure, or perhaps both. He realized, however, despite the circumstances, that he had to concentrate on being quiet so as to not humiliate himself and John. He swalloed his moans when Irene assailed his neck with kisses, and she took notice.

"Do speak up, dear, I do love to her you moan," she purred into his ear, nipping the lobe gently before pressing her lips to his neck. Sherlock fought to control his vocal faculties, but when Irene bit down hard on the side of his neck, he couldn't hold back.

"Ah!" Her lips spread against his neck in a devilish grin and she began sucking on the bite mark she'd made. "Oh! Oh…" Sherlock gasped, unfamiliar with the concentrated pressure on his neck.

"That's it, Mr. Holmes. You know you want to let it out. Now give me a nice shout. Go on, then," she encouraged him, but he refused despite the hands that slid across his chest and the mouth that sucked diligently on his neck. He could feel the bruise developing, and the increased sensitivity was like pure, tangible euphoria. "Don't disobey me, Mr. Holmes."

"I do as I please, and nothing more," Sherlock managed to mumble. Suddenly, Ms. Adler had straightened and was cracking her riding crop across Sherlock's chest. He winced and bit his lip to keep from crying out, but she struck him repeatedly, in the same place, until he couldn't help but wail.

"Oh God, stop! Please stop!" He wailed in agony as the crop came down for the third time since the welt had split open.

"Why should I, Mr. Holmes?" CRACK. He hissed through his teeth and whimpered, feeling the blood leaking from the left side of his chest. "I said, why should I stop, Mr. Holmes? Answer me!" She bellowed, striking him again.

"Because it hurts!" CRACK. "Oh god, it hurts! Please stop!" He was shouting now, and half-sobbing with tears running down the side of his face and into his ears.

"Only if you behave yourself," Irene snapped, pointing the riding crop down at the detective's face, between his eyes. "Now do as I say and lie down on your back in the middle of the bed."

Sherlock winced in pain as his movements irritated the open wound on his chest, but obeyed as quickly as he could. He felt ridiculous and vulnerable, lying on his back completely naked with a painfully hard erection. Ms. Adler walked across the bed, and stood over him looking like the cat about to eat the canary. She was standing between his legs, and after looking him up and down, she stood on one leg with gracefully dragging her left foot along the inside of Sherlock's thigh. Her toes were cold and sent chills up the detective's spine; he felt like he was about to burst from the combination of the uniquely gentle touch and his current view of Ms. Adler's body.

"Where do you keep your belts, Mr. Holmes?" Irene asked, setting her foot down and tracing the bruise on Sherlock's thigh with the riding crop. Sherlock did not respond, and Irene pressed her foot onto his prick to encourage him to speak. He still refused to speak, but pointed to a corner in the room where a dresser stood, with belts hanging beside it on hooks in the wall.

As she walked back towards the bed with a belt in hand, Sherlock sat up and folded his arms across his chest, saying firmly, "I will not allow you to tie me up with my own belt."

"Oh?" Irene raised her eyebrows, sliding the thin black belt between her fingers. "Would you rather I find some rope? Or chains, perhaps?" Her green eyes lit up as a thought occurred to her partway through her last sentence and she continued excitedly, "Ooh, or that scarf you're always wearing! Yes, that would do nicely, wouldn't it?"

"No," Sherlock said simply, staring Irene down, "I am not an animal to be tied up."

"Have you forgotten who you're speaking to, Mr. Holmes? I don't take kindly to being argued with," she tossed the belt onto the bed and brandished her riding crop threateningly.

"As you know, I am willing to be hit, beaten, and teased, but I have no intention of letting you tie me up like livestock."

"Do you now?" Irene asked, raising her eyebrows dangerously high. She lowered the whip and sauntered over to the other side of the room, making a show of her hips. Sherlock was absolutely captivated by the rhythmic motion that was aimed directly at him, for his enjoyment. "Well, let's do just that, then, shall we?" She asked, leaning against the door.

"Thank you," Sherlock said sincerely, making fierce eye contact with the cat-like woman eyeing him up from the other side of the room.

A frighteningly mischevious smile spread across Irene's face as she unlocked the door and opened it, pausing to enjoy Sherlock's baffled expression. "Follow me, Mr. Holmes," she said, strolling out of the room and into the hall. Despite the direct command, Sherlock wasn't sure what was expected of him, so he stayed put to consider the possibilities.

Peeking her pretty face through the doorway, Irene beckoned for Sherlock to follow and said, "Come on, then."


	6. A Captive Audience

Sherlock got out of bed slowly, and as he strode across the room, he grabbed his dressing gown.

"Oh, you won't be needing that," Irene said as she took it out of his hands, fingering the silky material before tossing it aside. He made to retrieve it, but the riding crop shot out between the detective and the garment, so he reluctantly abandoned the effort and followed Irene down the hall obediently, growing increasingly nervous with every step.

Sherlock hung back in the shadows of the hall to keep from John's sight as Irene entered the room, and John's irritated voice was making impatient queries immediately. "Have you had your fun, then? Are you going to unlock me from this mess now?"

"Oh, no," Irene purred, reaching behind her and roughly puling Sherlock into the room. John's face fell and flushed pink when he saw his flatmate stumble awkwardly into the sitting room. He averted his eyes automatically, looking at the floor first out of habit, but then turning an icy glare on Ms. Adler.

"We haven't even started yet, have we, Mr. Holmes?" In a once-in-a-lifetime moment, Sherlock appeared to be struck dumb for speech. When he didn't respond immediately, Irene cracked the riding crop across Sherlock's shoulder blades. "Answer me when I speak to you! I said, we haven't started yet, have we, Mr. Holmes?"

"Hardly," Sherlock muttered bashfully, like a child being forced to apologize for playing a cruel trick on a classmate. He flexed his fingers to keep from touching the stinging skin on his back.

Irene chuckled and, with an icy grin, pointed to Sherlock's armchair with the riding crop and instructed him to sit down at his usual place across from John. The detective reluctantly obeyed, and seated himself awkwardly in his chair; the combined sensation of embarrassed heat eminating from John and the unfamiliar feeling of leather on certain parts of his body made Sherlock squirm in discomfort.

Suddenly, John noticed the glowing wound on Sherlock's left thigh and exclaimed, "Jesus, Sherlock! That needs to be stitched and looked at properly!"

"It is rather nasty, isn't it?" Irene agreed proudly, striding over and kneeling in front of Sherlock. John glared at her, but she took no mind and leaned forward to kiss the semi-healed gash. As she traced her tongue around the mark, John couldn't help but notice that Sherlock's prick was reacting quite favorably to the attention Irene was giving him.  
>"Why must you do this in front of me?" John asked, clearing his throat into the silence that had fallen onto the room. Irene ignored him, but Sherlock appeared to be having several internal conflicts at once.<p>

Finally, the naked detective broke the silence and said, "Stop it. Please, stop."

Irene looked up, pausing in her delicate tongue work on Sherlock's sensitive thigh to ask, "Pardon?"

"I said, stop it. I refuse to be physically restrained and I also refuse to be a part of some voyeur's show for the purposes of humiliation," Sherlock said firmly, crossing his legs calmly, albeit slightly uncomfortably.

"So many demands for a man in such a vulnerable position," Irene murmured, observing Sherlock's uncomfortably crossed legs. "Why so brave all of a sudden, detective? You've been so compliant up until now."

"I was compliant only to buy myself more time and more material to observe, so I could determine your intentions and motive," Sherlock replied simply. Sherlock's gaze remained fixed on Irene, but he noticed John nod in comprehension behind her, as he finally understood why Sherlock had been so willingly submissive. Sherlock did enjoy the attention and occasional submission, but not here, not now, not in front of John.

Irene seemed to have just remembered that John was in the room, and she turned away from Sherlock, standing to face the army doctor. She looked him up and down, carefully searching for any sign of enjoyment in the latest progression of events. He didn't seem to be the voyeur type, as he didn't have any visible signs of arousal that came out as dominant over his discomfort. She strode slowly around to stand behind John's chair as she said, "Are you playing brave for your soldier, Sherlock?"

"I've already told you, I was merely observing you undercover," Sherlock said firmly, watching Irene carefully as she slid her hands over the back of the chair to rest them on John's shoulders.

Irene laughed, and squeezed John's shoulders as she replied, "Ha! If you meant that, Mr. Holmes, you'd have attempted to fight me by now. I know you don't have any sense of chivalry that prevents you from striking a woman."

"Though I am aware of the nostalgic sentiment attached to the concept, I see it as a flaw when it comes to self-defense. The twenty-third chromosome pair is incredibly irrelevant to these matters."

Irene laughed again and slid her fingers up John's neck before walking back to stand in front of Sherlock, seated comfortably in his chair as if he'd forgotten he wasn't wearing any clothes.

"You talk the talk, detective, but do you really mean what you say?" Irene asked, raising her eyebrows and planting a hand on her hip. She backed up a half-step and beckoned Sherlock with her other hand to stand and approach her. He stood up slowly, folding his arms across his bare, hairless chest and the two stared fiercely into each other's eyes for a few tense moments. "Come on, then, Mr. Holmes. Prove to me that chivalry is a weakness you do not posess."

Sherlock laughed drly and said, nearly nose-to-nose with his female adversary, "Don't take me for an idiot, Ms. Adler. If I was to strike you now, you would be prepared to block it, as you're standing here demanding it. It would be more to my advantage to wait for an appropriate moment when you least expect me to make a move against you."

Irene smiled and said, "I really do wonder about your discomfort with being so vulnerable like this in front of Doctor Watson. Genius needs an audience, and this is exactly what I have given you, is it not?"

"There is no evidence of intelligence to be found in sexual activities, and thus denying you the pleasure of taking advantage of me in front of my flatmate is not denying myself an audience for my genius. However," Sherlock stepped forward, causing Irene to step back, "when one is not focused on receiving sexual pleasure, using sexuality to manipulate someone else can be seen as a display of genius."

"You don't need to tell _me _that, Mr. Holmes," Irene said, smiling and tracing Sherlock's collarbone with her fingers.

"Don't I, though?" Sherlock asked, raising his eyebrows and seizing Irene's wrist in a firm grip. He stepped forward again, continuing, "What would you do if I was to turn the tables? What if I came on to you, Ms. Adler?" She opened her mouth to reply, but Sherlock shushed her. "You would want to see what I would do, how far I would go, wouldn't you? You would want to know how it feels to be touched," he lightly grazed his free hand against her cheek, "And just as your pupils dilate at the mere suggestion, you would be distracted enough for me to do _this_." On his last word, Sherlock grabbed her other wrist and pushed her back onto the chair he had only just vacated himself. She gasped in surprise, and Sherlock pinned her wrists against the back of the chair on either side of her head.

"Oh, very good, Mr. Holmes," Irene purred with a grin, looking up at the man who towered over her, "Very nice try."

"Try? What do you mean, try?" Sherlock demanded indignantly, and Irene answered his question by turning her head and sinking her teeth into Sherlock's wrist that held her own right wrist captive. Sherlock pulled his arm away in pain, and Irene leapt from the chair and struck Sherlock's chest with the riding crop. He howled at the sharp contact with the pre-existing wound there, and his hands flew up to protect himself from another blow. Holding the riding crop ready to strike as a bluff, Irene reached out with her free hand and seized Sherlock's prick firmly. He gasped at the unexpected contact, and groaned when Irene squeezed it gently.

"On your knees, Sherlock," Irene commanded sternly, but Sherlock bravely disobeyed her, eyes trained steadily on the riding crop, still in the air and ready to come down again. Instead of striking him with it, Irene squeezed his prick harder. It wasn't quite enough to be painful, but as it was hardening quickly, it became distinctly uncomfortable. "On your knees!" She squeezed harder, and Sherlock yelped in pain, his knees buckling under him.

"What are you doing to him? Stop it!" John demanded, just out of sight from Irene's peripheral vision, and she cracked the riding crop across his knees wordlessly. "Ow! What-?" CRACK. This time it bit into his right cheek, and blood came quickly.

"Don't lie to me, dear," Irene cooed to Sherlock as she stroked his prick, eliciting throaty sighs from the latter, "I know you like this. It's my job to know what you like." She bent forward and teased the tip of his cock with her tongue, and he whimpered with need.

"Sher—" John began, ignoring the warm sting that was blossoming across the right side of his face, but with another crack, Irene's riding crop bit into the other cheek.

Without a single hitch in her rhythm of gently stroking Sherlock's prick, Irene winked at John as he twisted his neck around uncomfortably, wanting desperately to be able to tend to his wounds, but could not because of his restraints.

"Would you like me to go faster?" Irene asked Sherlock, and without waiting for his response, she increased the speed of her strokes, and began squeezing as she went. Sherlock groaned and leaned back into his hands on the floor, his fingers curling into the rug. Soon the consulting detective's moans jumped from his throat more frequently, and his breaths became quick and shallow. Irene realized that he was getting close to his climax, and she stopped stroking, but still held on fast to the throbbing prick in her hand.

"Why—no, keep… keep going," Sherlock stammered half-coherently through half-closed eyes.

"I want you to beg for me, Mr. Holmes," Irene said with a mischevious smile.

"What? No," Sherlock murmured, thrusting his hips at an attempt for friction, but Irene tightened her grip.

"Beg, or else you don't get to finish," Irene insisted, staring at Sherlock's glazed periwinkle eyes.

"No," Sherlock argued, gasping when Irene squeezed harder. She could feel his heartbeat in the palm of her hand.

"Beg me, Sherlock, or I won't let go," Irene said sharply with a tight squeeze that made Sherlock yelp in pain. He bit his lip stubbornly despite the pain, refusing to beg in front of John. "I said, beg me!" Irene squeezed mercilessly hard, and Sherlock wailed.

"Ah, God! Fuck! Please! Please stop, it hurts!" He writhed in pain, and the movement only made it worse, so he stiffened in agony. Meanwhile, John's face was flushed and his pants were uncomfortably tight from witnessing what was going on at his feet. Sherlock was writhing on the floor, his bare skin shining while Irene's hand tortured the swollen prick in its grasp. John was silently begging for her to continue stroking Sherlock, partly for his flatmate's sake, and partly so he could admire the way her breasts trembled with the jerky movements of her arm.

"Would you like me to do this instead?" Irene asked, easing her grip and beginning to stroke him once again. The sound that came from Sherlock's mouth at that moment was a cross between a sigh, a moan, and a whimper, but he hardly noticed it for how good the combined relief and stimulation felt on his aching hard-on. Irene stopped stroking just as Sherlock had been getting into it again, and he whimpered. Sherlock was too absorbed in his own predicament to notice the groan that had just escaped from John's throat. Of course, Irene did take notice and chalked up another tally in the victory column for herself.

"Please, God, don't stop. Keep going. Please," Sherlock pleaded, and Irene grinned and complied, stroking faster and with the slight twist that made Sherlock's hair stand on end. "Oh, fuck, harder. Please, harder. Har—_Oh, fuck!"_ Sherlock bellowed throatily halfway through his plea when Irene began pumping harder, and the precum that was leaking from the tip of Sherlock's prick was getting between Irene's fingers on his shaft, resulting in a repetitive wet sound with each stroke. The detective was coming completely undone at the hands—or, rather, hand—of the dominatrix who knelt over him, pumping furiously while giving Dr. Watson quite the show for his view from above.

Nonsense began tumbling from Sherlock's lips as he whimpered like his life depended on it, afraid that Ms. Adler would stop pumping if he stopped begging. "Ah! God, please, don't stop. Don't stop. Keep… ohh yes, please, yes. Please, please, please. _Oh, please!"_ Sherlock wailed at the top of his lungs as his orgasm wracked through his body, shooting white streams of cum all over Ms. Adler's hand that pumped gently through his tremors of ecstasy. When the detective was panting breathlessly, eyes squeezed shut, and his release had finished, Ms. Adler stood up and purposefully walked down the hall to wash her hands in the bathroom.

When she returned, she found Sherlock semi-conscious and falling into an exhausted stupor, while John was sweating in his jumper and jeans, squirming uncomfortably in his chair. Irene sauntered over to John and knelt beside him, reveling in the lust-fueled hatred that eminated from every single one of his pores. "I'm glad you enjoyed the show, Dr. Watson," Irene whispered, squeezing his overheated thigh with a mischevious grin. "Now I hope that when Mr. Holmes awakes, he will be in the right state of mind for a new mystery."

John glared at her, but before he could demand to know what she was talking about, she began tracing the locks on each of John's restraints and said, "I've hidden the key to these locks, Doctor. It's up to our favorite consulting detective to find it."

"Now hold on, you can't just leave me here!" John argued vehemently as Irene stood up and walked proudly to the other side of the room.

Turning from the coat hooks on the wall, she raised her eyebrows and said, "Oh, but can't I? I was just about to."

"You can't—" John began, but she interrupted him.

"Oh but I can, and I will." she replied calmly, donning her jacket. "I've got other clients to consider, you know. I'm a very busy woman." She opened the door to leave, and turned around one last time to say, "I look forward to seeing you again, Dr. Watson. Do tell Sherlock that I had a wonderful time."


	7. The Samples Can Wait

"Fancy meeting you here, Mr. Holmes," a voice purred gently from the doorway of the laboratory.

"How long have you been waiting?" Sherlock asked, examining the beaker he'd chosen to be sure it was clean.

"Not very," Irene answered with a smirk; she always loved Sherlock's cool, casual way of revealing he knew more than you thought he did. "What do you say to a more… psychological experiment, Mr. Holmes?" Irene asked, keeping her eyes locked onto his, as he'd finally looked up at her, and she sauntered aacross the room towards him, dragging her fingers along the edge of the cool black countertop.

"I've got several time-sensitive samples that require my attention," Sherlock pointed out, though Irene smirked when she noted he had not said no.

"Oh, I'm sure they could wait a little longer," Irene murmured, finally arriving at the opposite side of the lab counter from Sherlock. His hands were resting on the countertop, and she placed each of hers gently on top of his; index finger on top of index finger, middle finger on top of middle finger, and so on.

"I'm actually quite sure that they can't," Sherlock replied without a smile, attempting to slide his hands off the counter, but Irene's hands—very much a personification of the woman herself—changed from a gentle touch to digging into his hands firmly, both pushing down with her palms and digging in with her nails.

"I've waited three weeks for you; your experiments can wait another hour." She grinned like the cat who had just caught the canary, but was savoring the moment of capture before devouring its helpless prey. "Now if you'd be so kind, I left my bag at the door, over there," Irene nodded towards the entrance to the laboratory before gently releasing her hold on Sherlock's hands. As he went to fetch it for her, he rubbed the nail indentations on his hands, but Irene tutted from behind him. "Don't forget the rules I taught you the first time, Sherlock."

He dropped his hands to his sides then, so she wouldn't be suspicious of his motives, and obediently picked up the designer briefcase from where it rested just inside the doorway. It was heavier than he expected, and he presumed it contained Irene's various instruments for torture and pleasure. He began composing a mental list of the items the case most likely contained in his head as he walked back to where Irene Adler stood waiting. When he got to Irene's side, he placed the briefcase on the floor between them, and Irene's dark magenta lips turned up in a satisfied smile as the tall detective straightened himself into his full height.

"Now, if you'll excuse me," Sherlock said, nodding politely at Irene before walking past her towards a row of refrigerators at the other side of the room.

Irene blinked in surprise, and turned slowly on her pointed heel to watch the detective as he opened one of the fridge doors. "Pardon?"

"As I've already said," Sherlock explained tonelessly as he rummaged through the contents of the fridge; the label on the door read 37.5°C, "I have time-sensitive samples that require my attention."

"Oh," Irene's surprised expression subsided, though she still appeared to be slightly confused, "So you're turning me down, Mr. Holmes?"

"For this evening, yes," Sherlock replied, exclaiming, "Aha!" when he found what he was looking for. There was a brief silence while Sherlock returned to his workspace and began preparing a slide with the sticky contents of the vial he'd taken from the fridge.

"Not even an apology for the inconvenience?" Irene asked, raising her eyebrows to feign an apperance of being affronted.

"You weren't expecting one," Sherlock replied blandly, prodding the sample on the slide to adjust it to the spread he wanted.

"That doesn't make it any less rude," Irene replied, slightly waspish.

"You weren't inconvenienced," Sherlock said as he placed the slide on the microscope stage.

"That isn't the point, Sherlock," Irene placed a hand on her hip indignantly. Sherlock noted that she wasn't aware of the movement. It reminded him of the way that Lestrade often crossed his arms when he was becoming impatient with Sherlock. He witheld a smirk upon this realization that he had succeeded in flustering her.

"Etiquette is petty and pointless," the consulting detective muttered as he leaned into the eyepieces, light reflecting against his eyes and making his irises appear to be a platinum color.

"But neccesary for any basic social interaction, dear," Irene pointed out.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and muttered, "Dull."

The consulting detective said no more, tuning out Irene's words as he adjusted the focus and observed the sample of John's saliva that he'd taken after dinner at Angelo's a week ago. Ordinarily, John wouldn't have willingly given Sherlock a sample of his saliva, but Sherlock had ensured there was a steady stream of beer throughout the course of their meal, and so John's altered chemistry made him more amenable to Sherlock's requests. Everything is chemistry in the end, and Sherlock was a master of chemistry; and so, by extension, he was a master of everything.

"You do realize, Mr. Holmes, that I am a very determined woman, in that I will accept nothing less than exactly what I want," Irene had leaned across the table and laid a hand on Sherlock's; the physical connection had overriden his dulled hearing. She did not need to know that he'd heard her, however, so he remained silent and concentrated on focusing the image on the small fragment of chicken suspended in the saliva sample.

He'd focused too much, however, as within a minute of Irene's statement, he felt heat behind him and hands sliding up and down his thighs. He cleared his throat to alert Irene to his annoyance; he was not in the mood for her games tonight. He would willingly play along at another time when there weren't experiments that needed his attention. She was useful to him only when he was bored, and right now, as he had experiments to conduct, he was not in need of her services.

"We can do this my way," Irene's hands slid up so that the insides of her wrists hovered over Sherlock's crotch; he could feel their heat through his trousers. He frowned in frustration with himself when he felt heat rising into his cheeks. "Or we can do this the hard way."

"I've already made myself clear, Ms. Adler," Sherlock said, gently taking each of her wrists and removing her hands from his thighs.

"I'm afraid you misunderstand, Sherlock," Irene replied with a sudden jerk of her leg as she kneed Sherlock with a direct hit to the bollocks. Sherlock doubled over in response and clutched himself, not used to that sort of attack, and in less than a second Irene had whipped out a pair of handcuffs and snapped them around Sherlock's wrists.

"Ngh," Sherlock grunted as Irene took his cuffed wrists and held them over his head, "That was a low blow, even for you, Ms. Adler."

Irene smiled and said, "Oh, you underestimate my cruelty, Sherlock. I'm afraid I've been too kind to you. I always go soft for the virgins."

"Let me go," Sherlock demanded, forcing his arms down and out of The Woman's grasp.

"The game has begun, Sherlock, and that means I'm in charge now, so you follow my rules. No talking, no touching, and no fighting," Irene kept her eyes on Sherlock as she took her briefcase on the floor and set it on the countertop beside the microscope Sherlock had been using. The light was still on.

"I'm not in the mood to play your games, Ms. Adler," Sherlock said firmly, lifting his arms to examine the lock on Ms. Adler's handcuffs.

"That's too bad, dear. Because you're playing anyway," Irene said sternly, all kindness and gentility gone from her voice. She saw Sherlock trying to examine the lock, and seized his wrists, just below the cuffs, and raised them to his face. His own hands were blocking his vision now, and the small chain connecting the left and right bracelets was digging painfully into the bridge of his nose. "Now, this is the last time I'm going to say this. You do not speak, you do not touch anything or anyone, and you do not fight back. Now do as I say and it will be easier for both of us."

She released her hold on his wrists, and he let them fall in front of him, trying to figure out a way to get out of this and ignoring the blood gliding slowly down his nose. Irene rummaged around in her bag, making lots of clinking sounds, while Sherlock's mind raced through the contents of the drawers closest to him, looking for something that he could use against Irene.

Both the detective and the dominatrix jumped when they heard the door to the lab open, paired with footsteps that stopped abruptly inside the room. Sherlock made to turn to see who it was, but Irene held his face so that he was forced to face forward, with his back facing the door.

"Um… hello," Molly Hooper's soft, hesitant voice was hardly loud enough to ellicit an echo in the large room. "Am I interrupting…?"

"Oh no, dear, not at all," Sherlock could tell from his sidelong glance at Irene's face and her tone that Irene was very much interested in Molly. "Won't you join us? We were just about to play a little game."

Halfway through Irene's sentence, Molly gasped; Sherlock assumed she'd seen the handcuffs Sherlock had carefully revealed by stretching his arms over his head while Irene was distracted.

"No, no, no, Sherlock, you're getting cheeky so soon!" Irene scolded him softly, but not warmly, as she took the riding crop from her case. She struck him across each cheek to daze him and then used the crop handle to hit the backs of his knees, causing his legs to buckle under him. Without the use of his arms, the detective couldn't catch himself as he fell, so when he hit the floor, his head hit a step-stool and everything went black.


End file.
